Circle
by AlNiFei
Summary: After one of the souls Dean tortured during his stay in Hell is freed, it sets out to inflict the same punishment on him that it was forced to endure for ten long years. After so many years of being free from the haunting memories of Hell, Dean is pulled right back in. S7 after Bobby's Death but before Sam's breakdown. Lots of angst, quite a bit of torture for each of the brothers.
1. Prologue

Prompt: Dean meets one of the souls he tortured from Hell.

Takes place during season 7; after Bobby died but while Sam could manage the hallucinations.

Warnings: A dash of cursing, dollop of Hell memories and torture, several gallons of angst, and a splash of OC but it's really not a significant piece to the recipe; it really only adds a bit of flavor to the whole thing. Like nutmeg on egg nog. And now I really feel like having egg nog. Can Christmas come already? However, just like I hate nutmeg I hate OC's, so I'm only using it to tell the story I want to tell; it is merely a pawn in the grand scheme of things. NYEHEHEHEHEHEH.

* * *

_"Please, please, please, no more" the soul beneath him begged and cried, "I can't take any more!"_

_ Dean laughed, his face cruel, sadistic. He was tortured on those racks for so long, and now it was his turn to dish out a little punishment. It didn't matter what they said- Hell, they could beg and plead and threaten all they wanted, but there was no way he would stop. It was sickly enjoyable, the way he could ever-so-delicately carve up human flesh, piece by piece until he reached the bone, without them gaining the satisfaction -the release- of death._

_ Without a word, he let his hand slide delicately across his instrument of choice. Choice, what a free word. This, right here, was as free as you could get in Hell. It was pure- no soul left untouched, and he could take out all thirty years of endless, unbearable torture inflicted upon him by Alastair on whichever poor soul was left on the rack in front of him. And he could take all the time in the world, because no one was going anywhere._

_ Sensitively clasping the large pliers, Dean vaguely remembered using them on something so innocent as a car. With a twisted smile, he then thought of all of the new uses he had put them to since._

_ Reaching inside his latest victim's body through the large aperture he had formed in their back, he plunged the pliers through the thin muscle protecting the first bone of the ribcage, revelling in the screams of the vile soul beneath him. Grinning, he began to open the mouth of the innocent device, setting both jaws in place on either side of the first rib before halting briefly to hear the cries and pleas of the soul below him._

_ They were desperate, shrill, and ultimately broken. But the thing that Dean struggled to call a person -for the sake of his own situation- just, at that moment, seemed so _innocent_. For a split second, the righteous man-turned-torturer was seeing a glimpse of his own humanity, asking questions that he had never bothered -never wanted- to ask before._

_ What did they do to deserve this?_

_ But just as quickly as it had come, what was left of the purity of his soul abandoned him as Alastair appeared in the back of Dean's mind, threatening to throw him back on the racks._

_ No, he couldn't go through that again._

_ So, he did the only thing that he could do: He tortured. He didn't think. And he squeezed his hand, slowly increasing the strain on the pliers still clamped to his victim's bone._

_ The screams grew louder, increasing in volume as the pressure on the rib increased as well like a sick duet. And, just like that, the bone snapped._

_ While the soul beneath him shrieked, Dean couldn't help but compare the sight to the cracking of crab legs, the ravenous clump of meat he once called human above it so mercilessly clamping down on the joints with their little nutcracker, desperate to get to the meaty insides._

_ By the time he was finished snapping, breaking, and crushing each of the ribs, he had reorganized them so they were jutting out of his victim's back, the jagged, broken ends pointing out and toward each hand. The soul beneath him was making only muffled and distorted grunts, as he had crushed their windpipe prior to finishing to keep them from screaming again._

_ Setting aside the pliers, Dean then plunged his bare hand into the open crevice in his victim's back, grabbing the left lung and pulling it through the opening, resting it on their flesh._

_ After he completed the bloody process with the second lung, he stood back to appreciate his work, smirking soullessly at what a masterpiece he had created from this hunk of flesh. He then proceeded to reach toward his little table with his tools of the trade, and gingerly plucked the container of salt from his collection._

_ For some reason he had an attachment to salt as a torture method._

_ Relentlessly, he poured the white, pure, miniscule grains into his victim's wounds, grinning sickly as he heard their muffled cries grow louder and more deformed. As he allowed the salt to settle he picked up a knife that looked identical to the one he had once slayed demons with, and walked over to face the tortured soul as the chains that were holding it in place raised so it looked like it was practically crucified before him._

_ Then, mercilessly, he drove the blade into their heart, twisting and turning, not once looking at its face out of the stubborn desire to keep himself from seeing it as something even close to human._

_ Yes, this was an art project._

_ Because when he left the knife, immersed in the blood flowing freely from the shredded remains of the -still alive- victim's heart to step back and actually _see_ his work, the broken and rearranged rib bones were spread out into the shape of wings._

_ He had created his own little makeshift angel._

Dean plunged from his bed, gasping for air as he frantically darted his eyes across the dark motel room, searching for validation that he was, in fact, safe from the grips of Hell. His search was then interrupted however, as a wave of nausea attacked and left him spewing the contents of his stomach -which, unfortunately, consisted of alcohol, alcohol, and what do you know? More damned alcohol- across his bed and onto the floor.

"Dean!?" The older brother looked up from his own clear vomit and towards the one person he would sacrifice everything for over and over again- his little brother.

Who, at the moment, had a panicked look on his face as he switched on the bedside lamp and rushed over to Dean, careful to avoid the waste scattered across the floor. The eldest looked up at Sam as he wiped his mouth, still haunted by the memory of Hell that had attacked him in his sleep but putting on his not-a-care-in-the-world smirk as he wiped his face with his sleeve.

"Wooh, must've gotten a bit of food poisoning from that gas station sandwich, huh?"

Sam frowned as he looked down at the contents of his brother's puke (void of any actual food), then turned to Dean and raised his eyebrows as if to say, "Oh? And this _totally_ has nothing to do with your drinking?"

But, knowing that prying wouldn't do any good (God knows he's tried) Sam just simply stated, "Let's get this cleaned up" before he shot a worried glance at his big brother.

Dean sighed, temporarily pushing back the memories of Hell that plagued him in order to get off his ass and help his younger brother, who had already started to faithfully clean up his big brother's mess.

_It's not supposed to be like this..._ Dean thought, _I should be taking care of you, Sammy. It's not like I'm the one seeing Lucifer. I should be over Hell, and you shouldn't need to take care of me._

As the eldest joined the cleaning, Sam kept constant watch over him in the corner of his eye. While it lately hadn't been uncommon for himself to startle from a nightmare and throw up whatever contents of his stomach were available, to see it happen to his big brother scared him.

Not that he would tell Dean that.

However, ever since Bobby's passing, Castiel's betrayal and later death, and the breakdown of the Great Wall of Sam, Dean's acting strange had become almost commonplace. Whenever he wasn't suckling that flask of his he was constantly mother-henning his little brother, like he was going to go crazy and shoot himself (or someone else) at any second.

Though Dean's "no chick-flick" rule penetrated the darkest dreams, the worst memories, and the most stressful events that either of the brothers had endured, and they both simply kept quiet about their problems. Sam wouldn't talk about his hallucinations, and Dean wouldn't talk about his drinking.

And, just like every time before that, Dean resisted Sam's questioning, stubbornly pointing out that he wasn't the one that was hallucinating Lucifer 24/7.

_Besides, _Dean thought, _How am I supposed to complain to you about Hell when you were trapped in the cage with Lucifer for a hundred and eighty years?_

Unfortunately Sam couldn't possibly read his brother's mind, and instead exhaled in frustration as he dropped some of his sheets onto his brother's bed, now cleaned of vomit.

"You know what, Dean? You don't want my help? Fine. Then clean up your own damned mess and make your own damn bed."

Dean looked up at Sam from his spot on the floor (where he was unsuccessfully cleaning up his vomit) as he walked away, towards the door. He then looked over to Sam's hands as his brother pressed his thumb against the old scar inconspicuously, probably in hopes that the eldest wouldn't see.

After Sam angrily left their motel room, declaring that he needed to get some air, Dean sighed. He wished that he could take the hallucinations from Sam and bear them on his own. After all, he broke the first seal; his little brother shouldn't have been the one to clean up his mess.

However, while self-pity was practically a character requirement for Dean Winchester, he pushed it aside and began to think about a more pressing matter.

_Why did I dream of Hell?_

* * *

**A/N:** I based Dean's Hell memory off of a torture method spoken of in Norse literature called the "Blood Eagle". It basically involves cutting the victim's ribs by the spine, breaking them so they resemble wings, then pulling the lungs through the opening and sprinkling salt on the wound. You are welcome for the history lesson.

**I love you, you love me, let's all sit and eat some pie (read as "pee"), with a great big review and a kiss from me to you! Won't you say "Hi I love your fic"**

I made that up on the spot and don't feel like redoing it. Don't judge me.


	2. Chapter 1: Sam's Hallucination

Warnings: Slight cursing, bad Dick jokes. At this point I'm gonna stop using serious warnings. Basically, if you think you can handle the fic, you can handle it. If you don't think you can, feel free to stop ruining. I find that warnings ruin the chapter/story. Imagine if Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows had the warning "Almost major character death" printed on the cover.

Disclaimer: I wish I could own Supernatural since I would, by consequence, own every character on the show and as a result have Jensen, Jared, Misha, Felicia, Mark, Sebastian, Richard, and the rest of the cast as my slaves, but I unfortunately don't.

**A/N: **Correctly count how many dick jokes there are in the first scene and you win a prize! And that prize is bragging rights! Whoop!

**Please don't forget to review, my lovelies~!**

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"Dean, come on. We can't just sit around while there's a case nearby!" Sam exclaimed, his hands clearly broadcasting his annoyance with their exasperated movements.

The eldest turned to his younger brother, a vexed expression across his features, "Oh yeah, because we have absolutely _nothing_ else to focus on. There isn't a rampaging Dick out there or anything. And you definitely don't have Lucifer skipping around inside that noodle of yours!" He responded, annoyed with his little brother's impatience. It would be better to just stay in one place and track down that damned Leviathan. If they could only finish with the sonsofbitches, they could get back to their own lives.

"But look," Sam began to say as he slammed the newspaper down on the table in front of Dean, pointing towards the column of interest, "'Congregation Found Strung Up Gruesomely in Church'. An _entire _congregation in broad daylight. How can you just sit there and ignore this?!"

Dean frowned, momentarily suppressing his giant Dick-watching marathon. Sam was right; there was something out there killing swarms of people, and someone should stop it. However, that didn't mean it had to be them.

"Call Garth and get him to take care of it."

Sam bitch-faced, "Dean, the damn town is _literally_ a thirty minute drive from here. Whatever this thing is, it's killing groups of people at a time, and if it attacks again while we're here sitting around in hopes that Dick is planning on spewing his top-secret information, we'll have their deaths on our hands! And who knows how long Garth will take to get here? By then the body count could triple!"

Dean sighed, knowing that his little brother was correct. There hadn't been any news even mildly regarding Dick for a month, and whatever this thing was, it sounded like it was just getting started.

"Fine. But as soon as we're done with this case, we're coming back here and working full-time on the big bad Leviathan daddy."

Sam rolled his eyes in annoyance. He really wished that his brother would stop being so obsessed with Dick. But ever since Castiel, Dean had been acting strange. Not that he was exactly one to talk- Lucifer had him inside his own mind half of the time. But unlike Dean, he could think of other things.

"Now," Dean started as he raised from his seat, grabbing Ruby's knife, his .45, and his beloved Impala's keys, "let's hurry up and gank this thing before it kills anyone else."

* * *

Neither of the brothers had known exactly what to expect before walking into the police-taped church, but they surely didn't think that it would be like... _This_.

Even with the bodies removed and evidence (what little there was) whisked away, the entire hall was filled with the heavy, acrid sensation that the brothers had so early in their lives learned to distinguish as blood.

While the scrub crew had done their best to clean the floors, benches, and altar of the crimson liquid, giant splotches still stained the once-holy surfaces. There wasn't a single item in the room free of the dull red smears. It looked like every person was drained of all of their blood, the culprit spilling it wherever they so pleased.

Sam and Dean woke up from their stupor, immediately throwing their arms over their mouths in a futile attempt to clear their nostrils of the putrid smell and coughing from the stench at the same time.

"What the hell!?" Dean questioned, turning to his younger brother with an incredulous expression across his face.

However, such a countenance was cut short when he saw the look on Sam's face; it was one of pure panic.

"Sam?!" Dean exclaimed worriedly. The youngest Winchester didn't respond, his eyes instead darting back and forth erratically as he backed away from the church.

"Sam!" Dean yelled, snapping his fingers in front of his brother's face in hopes of getting his attention, "Hey! Snap out of it; you're not in Hell!"

Oblivious to his brother's frantic attempts to convince him that he was free from Hell, Sam collapsed- his breathing growing more frantic and struggled as his panic overtook him.

* * *

There was blood. _Everywhere_. Across the floor were puddles several inches thick, while his head and arms were restrained, forcing him to look up while keeping him immobile.

And there was Dean, hanging directly above him. But there was something wrong- there was more of the crimson liquid dripping from his big brother.

"DEAN!" Sam yelled, hoping that his brother would look down toward him and assure him that everything was okay. In the back of his mind, he could hear Dean reassuring him from the world outside of his head. But that world seemed so far away, and Sam was trapped here, unable to break free from his chains.

When the Dean directly above Sam didn't respond, he tried to break from his bonds. In response they tightened gradually, ripping into his wrists and ankles and slowly crushing the bone.

Sam wailed, his voice laced with what one could only imagine is the audible manifestation of unbearable pain. After screaming until his throat was rubbed raw, the tightening of his restraints halted and a sadistic cackle interrupted his tormented howls.

"See? Told you you're still trapped in Hell~! If you were really out and dancing in the dandelions, don't you think you'd be out of this so-called 'hallucination' by now?"

Sam only panted, unable to respond to his tormentor, who was standing directly in front of him.

"You know, you've been so focused on yourself, little Sammy," Lucifer started, changing the subject as Sam cringed at the once-comforting nickname, "that you forgot to check up on big brother up there."

Sam's bloodshot eyes then shot up to Dean, who he had completely forgotten about in his pain. At the same time, Lucifer stepped closer to the hanging man and pulled out a knife.

The glint of silver to the light caught Sam's attention and his eyes darted from his hanging older brother to the archangel in front of him, who was growing ever-closer to Dean.

"Don't touch him!" Sam yelled, protective over his brother, even if it was just another one of Lucifer's imagined scenarios. After all, Dean really looked -and acted- like Dean.

Lucifer laughed gleefully at Sam, revelling in his victim's stubbornness despite his current situation. He then raised his hand and cut the rope hanging Dean from the ceiling, watching as the hunk of meat fell onto the youngest Winchester face-forward, getting Sam rather up-close and personal with Lucifer's newest mutilation.

"DEAN!" Sam screamed, his throat still raw from use. 'No, no, no, this isn't Dean' He thought frantically, unable to turn his head away from the mutilated thing in front of him due to the cursed restraints but still attempting to block the sight through closed eyelids. 'This isn't Dean, this isn't Dean, this isn't Dean, this isn't Dean, this isn't Dean,' he chanted over and over again in his head, finding that the more he chanted, the less he believed it.

"Open your eyes Sammy, or I'm gonna have to peel them off~" Sam refused momentarily, but thought better of it- Lucifer could do what he wanted here, and there was nothing he could do about it.

Because death doesn't exist in Hell.

So, reluctantly, Sam opened his eyes slowly, looking to the side all the while and trying to block out the sight that Lucifer had thrown upon him.

However, like the loyal little brother he was, he had to look towards his Dean and make sure that his big brother was okay.

As soon as he did Sam felt his throat and stomach clench, his body desperately fighting the urge to retch that was climbing its way up his body. But it was too much, and he began choking on his own vomit- unable to turn his head to the side to release the noxious liquid pooling inside his mouth. He panicked, his throat too exhausted for the strength to force the bile out while his lungs refused his mind's demands to calm themselves, instead taking in the putrid liquid that seemed bent on slowly choking the poor soul in its grasp.

But no matter what Sam did or how hard he prayed, he couldn't do anything but wait for Lucifer to clear him of this torture and begin yet another.

* * *

"Shit, Sammy..." Dean sighed, rubbing his hand across his face as he walked from his brother to wet the rag he was using to cool him down. Even with the cold weather, beads of sweat were dripping from the youngest Winchester's brow, and his skin was hot to the touch. He had thought about taking him to the hospital (and desperately wanted to), but after those two Leviathans dressed up as the brothers for Halloween and went around shooting everyone in sight, they would both just end up in jail. 'And Sam in an asylum...' He thought, shivering at the mental image of Sam stuck in yet another cage.

"You're supposed to wake up now man," Dean stated, his voice thick with guilt and worried impatience.

"I should have checked it out beforehand," He started, turning to Sam in order to rest the cool towel on his forehead, "I should've known to be careful with Lucifer running around in your head."

Dean then walked over to the seat beside the bed that Sam was currently laying on, resting his chin on crossed knuckles as he worried over his little brother, who was twitching sporadically.

'At least you're not screaming anymore...' Dean thought, sadly considering the fact that his brother screaming was even something that had to worry about.

He truly was grateful that Sam had stopped screaming. When he had first dropped at the church Dean was forced to simply watch and try to comfort his little brother as Sam yelled and struggled until his voice ran out and both of their muscles were tired. The most painful parts though, were when Sam screamed his name. Because in those moments, hearing his brother's blood-curdling wails for Dean crushed the eldest Winchester. No matter how hard he tried to wake Sam up, how much he reassured him that he was not (nor would ever be again) in Hell, or how much he tried to comfort him, saying that it would all be over soon, Sam didn't hear him.

But now Sam was calm. In fact, if he didn't know better, the eldest could almost claim that Sam was asleep. Though, having been to Hell himself, he knew that there would be no such thing for a long, long time- if Lucifer would even begin to let Sam catch a break.

Dean sighed, getting up momentarily to grab the thermometer from his duffel. He was grateful for the fact that Sam had suggested to get one of the fancy ones that could read your temperature from your ear, instead of the mouth-measuring kind that they used to carry. After all, Sam was clenching his jaws so tightly that Dean doubted he'd ever be able to squeeze in a thermometer. And even if he succeeded, he imagined that his giant-of-a-brother would bite down on it and shatter their only thermometer.

So, Dean stuck the tip lightly into Sam's ear and pulled it out once the machine beeped, rubbing his hand against his face for the second time in the last half hour at the sight of the temperature.

"I know Sammy, I know... Hell's really freaking hot."

Just as he finished his sentence, Sam seemed to convulse in front of him, stomach muscles and throat clenching as his eyes shot open, unseeing of the world around him.

"Sam!?" Dean shouted, jumping to his brother, who was still in his face-up position on the bed.

"Fuck!" Dean swore, realizing with the frequent gulping sounds that Sam was going to vomit.

Frantically, Dean focused on getting Sam into a position where he wouldn't choke on his own stomach fluids, pushing his giant little brother to his side on the edge of the bed and then leaning his head in a somewhat upright position.

"Come on Sammy, it's okay," Dean comforted, rubbing his brother's back as Sam's glazed eyes continued to dart across the room, still unseeing of the real world before him, "It's okay, just let it out..."

But Sam wasn't letting anything out, as Dean slowly began to realize. Instead of letting the vomit flow from the depths of his stomach, Sam could only gag and choke.

Dean's rubbing grew more and more frantic, his voice becoming more and more urgent. What was he supposed to do? He already sat his brother into an almost upside down position with his head leaning out and over the bed, but gravity seemed to have it out for the Winchesters (along with the rest of the universe, that is).

So, Dean could only watch as his brother choked and gagged before him, all the while unaware as to what was going on in the real world.

After what Dean was sure was an eternity, the vomit finally spilled from Sam's mouth, the youngest Winchester retching painfully across the motel floor.

Dean breathed a sigh of relief, said relief intensifying when Sam grabbed the nightstand in front of him for support as tremors shook his body. All the while the eldest Winchester supported his brother, telling him that it would all be okay despite both of them knowing the truth, and rubbing his back soothingly despite the fact that it did little to comfort either of them.

Finally Sam's gagging halted, and he collapsed backwards onto the bed, panting heavily as he wiped his mouth with his sleeve. Dean remained silent, watching his brother cautiously for any sign of a remission into the youngest Winchester's personal Hell.

As Sam finally started to breath normally, the eldest brother rose from the bed and filled up a cup of water, walking back over to the bed to silently hold it out to Sam.

"Thanks," Sam said gruffly, his throat still sore from his earlier screaming.

"No problem," Dean nodded as he started on the mess on the floor.

He wouldn't start the conversation; he would let Sam tell him.

Moments passed before Dean realized that Sam was being quiet- much too quiet. Sure enough, when he turned around Sam was staring off into space, a frightened expression across his face.

The eldest Winchester got up slowly so as not to scare his brother, then took Sam's injured hand and pressed his index finger into it lightly at first, then forcefully as the younger brother refused to notice anything but whatever was going on inside his head.

Sam finally looked at him, recognition dawning slowly across his face.

"Sammy, remember _this_," Dean stated firmly, nodding toward the hand that was currently digging his fingernail into the stitches of Sam's injured palm, "remember this pain- it's different from Hell pain. This world is real, and you are _never_ going back to Hell."

The youngest Winchester then nodded, smiling down toward his older brother, "Thanks, Dean."

* * *

**A/N:**

I made Hell hot because it takes after me. TSSSSSSSSSS.

As far as serious A/N's go, this chapter does have to do with the plot, believe it or not. Also, I wasn't planning on getting this sappy originally, but whateva. We all know that on a scale of "1 to Pizza and a College Student", Sam and Dean's codependence rates preeeetttyyy freaking close to a Domino's. Or Papa John's. Or whatever other pizza places there are. I don't know I don't eat pizza. The one college student that doesn't. Maybe ramen was a better way to use that scale. AH, oh well.

Count the dick jokes for bragging rights! They're only in the first part (well, the deliberate ones at least) since I thought it would be absurd to scatter them throughout a torture scene. Then again, to each his/her own.

**Please don't forget to review! I love you! **


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